


Primal

by bobbiewickham



Series: X-ameron [4]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:40:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23271874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: Bahorel, laid up with an injury, expresses his frustrations.
Series: X-ameron [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669762
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Primal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crimsondust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsondust/gifts).



> Written for a prompt for something with Bahorel and Prouvaire.

Bahorel, his twisted ankle elevated according to the strict instructions of Combeferre and Joly, grew restive. He had injured himself in a philosophical exchange of ideas with three gendarmes, and considered the damage well worth it. But, having stayed still and indoors for two entire days, he found his patience taxed.

Still, he did not lack for occupation. He had books; he had his mistress; he had the pamphlet he was writing; he was learning to knit; and he had Jean Prouvaire, sitting cross-legged on the floor of Bahorel’s flat, playing the flute.

Jean Prouvaire’s emotions communicated themselves through his music. Bahorel would expect no less from a poet of such sensitivity, and certainly would never be so churlish as to complain about it.

It wasn’t _complaining_ to observe that Prouvaire’s emotions today were melancholy, verging on the morbid. The flute’s silvery strains sounded like an unending dirge–-or worse, a church service.

“How about a folk song?” Bahorel suggested, brightly, when the mournful melody drew to a close.

Prouvaire nodded, still looking grave, which made Bahorel fear he was going to pick one of the sad songs about children drowning in wells and coming back to haunt their villages, instead of the cheerful dances Bahorel had been thinking of. But Prouvaire plunged into a sprightly tune. Before Bahorel knew it, he was tapping his feet and fingers, wishing he could move with the rhythm. His energy soon turned to frustration. His very blood yearned for movement, but he was trapped in place, able only to hobble around. Prouvaire read the look on his face, and stopped playing.

Bahorel gave him a wry half-smile. “Do you have a song that sounds like the howling of a wolf caught in a hunter’s snare? Because that’s how I feel right now.”

Prouvaire raised the flute to his lips again, and blew out a weird, unholy shriek. It sounded like an angry ghost, and it went on for a full ten seconds. When it had finished, Prouvaire took a large, gasping breath, and did it again. This time Bahorel joined in, throwing his head back and screaming as loud as he could manage. He did it again, and again, until his voice was hoarse. It was the middle of the day, and any neighbors around to hear him would just hope he was being murdered.

Finally, out of breath and his restlessness blunted, he looked at Prouvaire in wordless query. Prouvaire started on _Ça Ira_ , and Bahorel sang along; if he had to be still, he would at least not be silent.


End file.
